They Are, Therefore I Can Never Be
by insanelaughtler
Summary: Countries aren't human, no matter how much they look or pretend. They suffer more than a human's share of joy and grief, love and hate, life and death. Life matters to them no more than death appeals. Shots and drabbles about the existence of the nations.
1. Chapter 1

**Drabble: Forever Patient**

Italy was stupid. Useless. A weakling. A coward.

He's been that way for as long as he could remember, only useful in things that don't matter. Painting, cooking, singing, flirting-

Love.

He could love, he could love unlike any others he's seen. Humans and their fleeting romances, nations and their fickle affections, none of them could truly _love_ like he could. They weren't faithful, everlasting, or deep with meaning, they just simply were.

Italy loved Holy Roman, he loved him so much. He was as faithful to his first lover as he could be. Society and his nation side forced him to date, to flirt, to romance the girls around him, and so he did. But he was never truly there, still inside his head where he can see his one true love.

Holy Roman Empire loved him; he swore that he'd love him forever. Forever was a long time, but Italy believed him. Still believes him. Will always believe those last words.

But they were not, _could not_ be his last words.

He locks himself in his mind, letting his subconscious take over whatever his body is doing, stupid or not, it doesn't matter to him.

He'll wait and wait and wait for Holy Roman to come back and love and protect him. To see that he _does_ have use and _isn't_ always a burden.

He'll wait until he can truly love and be loved again.

And until then he'll be forever patient.

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**I do not own Hetalia. **

**A little drabble for Italy and HRE. This will be a series of unrelated or loosely related one-shots and drabbles for all nations that I can write. The title is based off the saying "I think, therefore I am."**


	2. Too Long

**Drabble: Too Long**

Another year goes by. China watches quietly as the clock ticks and tocks. He can't remember how many times he has done this in the past.

He's watched years go by while celebrating with his family all those years ago; while alone, silently drinking tea; while killing another nameless, faceless person on the battlefield; while celebrating the birthday of a future ruler; while mourning the death of another name forgotten in history.

He lost count long ago of how old he is, he estimates somewhere between four thousand or five thousand. Maybe even older.

And now, when he thinks back to times long forgotten, he feels an empty, hollow feeling. He can't find many purposes in his life, only to watch as his country and people grow older and older and older until they all die. It's a sad, miserable existence.

He's immortal, he knows. He's more immortal than most if not all of the other countries. How many other countries, he would think to himself often, have lived as long as he lived, experienced as much as he experienced, lost as much as he lost.

He's lost names, faces, personalities, people, history, his own _identity_.

All because he's immortal.

Sometimes he wonders if he really is _China_ the country, he might just be the essence of the land or even a god, tied to the earth and trapped in a mortal body.

He's been too many countries, used too many names, seen too many deaths.

Yet still, even with the knowledge and experience of thousands of years, he only knows for certain one thing.

He's lived too long.

* * *

**I do not own Hetalia.**

**China must be pretty lonely, being so immortal. A human life time is barely a blink of an eye to him and even a nation's life would come and go pretty quickly to him.**


	3. Blood

**Drabble: Blood**

He looks down at his hands, hand stained red with the blood of innocents. Screams that are now gone and only he can hear ring in his head. It dizzies him.

The taste the blood of children, of helpless, naïve children, is metallic and thick is in his mouth, choking him, reminding him.

A woman's remains, her blood red entrails are splattered over his arm, over his torso, over the metal instrument of that means death. Droplets like ruby souls cling to his hands and do not come off no matter how much he shakes or writhes or even cry. The crimson tears of death watch him, resent him; reprimand him.

He tries to walk forward, but the sea of scarlet, the liquid life, slows his movements, like many hands dragging him down into Hell. And it surrounds him, covering his eyes, drawing breath out of his mouth, caressing the living flesh of his body, and in his ears he can still hear-

His eyes opens, he's awake. Deep, ragged breaths escape him. It's not the first night this has happened and will surely not be the last. He almost drunkenly stumbles to the bathroom.

The mirror shows nothing different about him, but the mirror lies, just like everyone else. Pale hands are clean and shaking, his clothes unstained but torn. Even as he watches blood drops down his body in torrents of an angry river.

He drinks the strong, strong alcohol that he always has but only tastes more blood, more thick, nauseating blood that creeps down his throat and clots in his heart.

And he sees his eyes, the mirror says that it is violet, the color of lavender and peace and the gentle soothing of a mother's coo.

But all Russia sees is red. Glaring, hateful, hurting red. But the mirror lies to him and shows falsehoods that aren't real because he can see and feel and taste the destruction. Suddenly the mirror shatters and splays around him, showing from every angle the gruesome liquid that seems to fall even more freely. He tries to scream but he can't.

He's suffocating in the blood only he can see.

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**I do not own Hetalia.**

**Ah, Russia... such an interesting character, he's not the villain all the time people.**


End file.
